


Waking Dreams

by caras_galadhon (Galadriel)



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Arguing, Community: contrelamontre, Dreams, Eavesdropping, Fights, M/M, Nightmares, Senses, Sleep, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-02-02
Updated: 2003-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-03 08:07:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/379190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel/pseuds/caras_galadhon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam wakes, only to drop some eaves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waking Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Movie-based. Written for [](http://contrelamontre.livejournal.com/profile)[**contrelamontre**](http://contrelamontre.livejournal.com/) Senses Challenge #3: Sound. Time limit: 45 minutes. Many thanks, as usual, to [](http://savageseraph.livejournal.com/profile)[**savageseraph**](http://savageseraph.livejournal.com/) who's always ready with an excellent suggestion or two... or three... or eight...

_Frodo screamed out in anger, in pain, his cry echoed and answered by Aragorn's own. Sam reached for him, his arms flung wide, his feet clattering across stray pebbles, his mouth issuing soundless pleas, his lips forming around unvoiced agony. Frodo shouted again, writhing in pain, the Morgul blade piercing his shoulder. He heard it slide wetly through muscle, catching, nocking the bone, and Sam--_

\--Sam awoke to a short burst of noise. Surfacing from the muddle of the dreamworld, he shook off the sleepy haze, confused and fearing the worst. _Had Mister Frodo cried out in his sleep? Had his night-terrors returned?_ He pushed himself up, one hand braced against the ground. Dry leaves crackled under his palm. He stilled his fingers, holding himself as immobile as possible, attempting to restore silence in order to hear more clearly.

He waited, his ears pricking, for some indication that certain doom was at hand. A gentle breeze moved through the campsite, rattling the bushes, carrying with it the same sound that had invaded Sam's dreams. Clearer now, Sam realized it was a human voice, rising and falling on the wind. As it grew louder, it became more familiar; _Strider._ Strider was speaking loudly, energetically, talking with... with someone. Sam let his body relax, the sense of impending doom draining from his limbs. He lay back down, heedless of the crackling leaves, the rustling of his cloak.

He smiled in the darkness, momentarily reassured.

Another voice rumbled over Strider's own, and Sam amused himself by attempting to place it. _Boromir._ Not exactly a difficult challenge. The two Men, so companionable during the long hours of the company's trek, were arguing. Over what, Sam could not tell. He supposed it was a heated discussion about the companions' next move, the next leg of their journey; what else would they quarrel over?

"You are afraid!"

The voices rose again, duelling, attempting to drown one another out through sheer volume. The argument was obviously becoming more heated. Suddenly uncomfortable, Sam shut his eyes and attempted to block out the noise. The Men's voices, deep and brassy to Sam's hobbit ears, echoed on the rocks, rolling through the campsite. He could hear their boots shuffling across stone and gravel, dull thumps as their conversation crossed the threshold between vocal and physical. He pulled his hood over his head, hoping the fabric would block out the noise.

"...within a hundred leagues of your city." Strider hissed the words.

For a moment, all was quiet. Tentatively, Sam poked an ear out from underneath his hood. He let the Elven cloak slip through his fingers, fall soundlessly from his grasp. He could hear the slow susurration of the waves against the bank, no more than a stone's throw from their campsite, but the rest was silence.

Boromir said something unintelligible, his voice husky and low.

There was no reply.

Sam strained his ears. In the unfolding hush, they felt as if they were stuffed with cotton.

There was a crack, bare knuckles making shocking contact with exposed flesh.

Silence began to pour itself into Sam's ears once again, jarred loose only by the insistent jangling of metal.

Sam heard more clanking metal, and then the softer sound of fabric rasping, sliding, falling to the ground. The voices rose. Someone grunted. Someone else growled, the sound dark and earthy. There was a pause, some muttering, and a slow, rhythmic slapping noise began, harsh in the cool night air. The noise changed, the tempo speeding up, each slap punctuated by rough, harsh intakes of air.

He blushed, the full nature of his eavesdropping revealed. Sam squirmed, instinctively rolling away from the sounds, wrapping himself in the rustling folds of his cloak, burying his face in the hood. His pin scraped against the ground as he scooted closer to Frodo, seeking the easy in and out; the simple, regular cadence of the sleeping hobbit's breath.

Boromir – Sam thought it was Boromir – moaned loudly, gutturally, and Strider's voice, normally so sure and confident, said something pleading, urgent. There was a scraping, more rustling, and the Men's voices mingled into one; ragged, hoarse moans issuing from parched throats clogged with lust.

Sam imagined that he could hear the faint sounds of skin sliding across skin.

He closed the last few inches that separated him from Frodo's warm body, stopping only when his cloak whispered against Frodo's own. The fabric slid, hissing at each inhalation, and Sam pulled the hood close around his ears, blocking out the two Men.

As Sam drifted back to sleep, he wondered. Would Mister Frodo sound like that? Would he utter formless words in a voice not unlike Strider's own? What would Sam's name sound like, issued from a throat almost closed with pleasure, choked with desire? He slept, and Frodo cried out again in his dreams, this time without pain.


End file.
